Crimson Days in the Depths of Time

29 November 2022

Into the sea he dove, toward another land,
this one no less deplorable, unneutered, never filtered,
and he swam. The currents pushed and pulled his form,
and twisting, writhing, he found sand, the stuff of mountains
long eroded, then descended. Were these not the sands
of time, at last, now freed here from their hourglasses?
Time would tell, as only time could tell.
And so he fell, but falling, not as out of Eden,
rather falling as one drawn to depths by kinship
to those depths, or maybe drawn by some dark gravity.
Leviathan in chains, he feared, would wait for him down there,
or so they say, but on this day he little cared
what fate awaits him, little cared for self at all
when put against the call to sink or fall below the waves.
In crimson days, in patterned waves, he feared the rise
of troubled years, nor dared to counter them with tears,
for they demanded something more, a new beginning,
if a new path could be won, and so he dove
to chart a course, lay some foundation. He struck
rock the second time, this not surprising. He
had heard of rock before, though never seen it.
These he saw, and knew at once that they
could serve him. He delved hard, and threw himself
against the rocks, and when few broke, he knew again
that these were firm. But when he moved them,
when he placed one on another, both proved worthless,
turned to sand. He groaned, but, still resolved, took sand
and pressed it in his hands, until as glass it stayed.
He now had made his way, and none could take it,
so he claimed, but came a rumble from those depths
of things forgotten, drifting memories of all that sand
has been. This troubled him, his glass was cracked,
but there could be no going back. He cut his hands there,
leaving drops of blood reflecting throughout time, and
though those depths had proved unkind, it's said
that he still loves them, like a child, like a patriot,
to the end.